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POEMS AND LYRICS 




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Poems and Lyrics 



By 



ALFRED ABERNETHY COWLES 



NEW YORK 
JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 

1917 



4 



Copyright 1917 
By JAMES T. WHITE A CO. 



OCT 18 1317 
&CLA476605 



To Edmund Clarence Stedman 
Poet, Philosopher and Man of Letters 
This Little Volume is Inscribed 
By The Author 



THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORK 

Alfred Abernethy Cowles was born in Torrington, 
Conn., September 28, 1845. His father, George P. 
Cowles, was vice-president of the Ansonia Brass and 
Copper Co. ; and his mother, the daughter of Gen. 
Russell C. Abernethy, was a woman of rare intelligence 
and cultivation, and possessed of a fine appreciation of 
literature. His preliminary education was acquired at 
the Chase Academy of Middletown, Conn., which was 
completed at the College de France, Paris, France, 
where he received that liberal education which gave him 
his taste for art and letters in after years. He began 
his business career at the age of nineteen as a clerk in 
the National Bank of Ansonia, Conn,, but after two 
years' apprenticeship he was given a position in the 
Ansonia Brass and Copper Co. as an entry clerk, where 
he rose rapidly through its various departments to be 
the President of the Company, and later, vice-president 
of the American Brass Company. In 1878 he organized 
the Ansonia Clock Co., taking the position of Secretary ; 
but was afterwards elected President, which latter 
office he held at the time of his death, which occurred 
December 9, 1916, at his New York residence, after a 
short illness from an attack of pneumonia. 

Mr. Cowles was a great lover of music and of art. He 

was a musical critic of considerable reputation, and 

while a young man, simply for his pleasure, wrote 

reviews and criticisms of the opera and other musical 

7 



productions, which were accepted by the leading musical 
journals of the country with appreciative praise. Dur- 
ing all his busy career his imagination created poems 
of rare beauty, which his natural modesty withheld from 
publicity; but his friend, the late poet and critic, Ed- 
mund Clarence Stedman, was so impressed with their 
artistic excellence, precision and finish, that he urged 
their publication, insisting that it was Mr. Cowles's duty 
to bestow upon the world the gift of these lovely 
lyrics. Mr. Cowles never published in the magazines, 
and it is only in this volume that one can know his 
rare and delicate art. When a man denies himself the 
public appreciation of his literary work, there can be 
no doubt of the motive of his art, and that it was a 
spiritual necessity which impelled the creation of his 
verse. 

To Mr. Cowles the art of poetry had a very personal 
relation, and he practiced it to express his own person- 
ality, and to reveal the realities hidden in human nature. 
His lyrics, therefore, have a comprehensive significance, 
and his readers cannot fail to recognize a language 
common to the feelings and emotion of all mankind. 
The high privilege of communicating this golden knowl- 
edge is the distinction of the true poet. 

Mr. Cowles's verse has the lightness of Aldrich, the 
temperament of Heine, and the grace of Shelley. It 
is characterized by a pervading sense of youth and 
music, of hope and fulfillment, of limitless ambition 

8 



and deep humility, that impresses one with the certainty 
of a poet's presence. His verse has a wide range of 
themes, which show acquaintance with art and litera- 
ture; the entire volume is surprisingly thoughtful and 
satisfying. He has also the ability to evoke what 
Maeterlinck calls "the caressing voices which we cherish 
at the depth of us"; and in addition to the usual hall- 
marks of genuine poetry is the supreme fact, that it 
"lingers in the memory." 

James Terry White. 
New York, May 1, 1917. 



CONTENTS 

The Author and His Work 7 

Proem 14 

Semitones. 

Words Are the Organ Stops 16 

Introduction 17 

Sonnets 19 

At Daybreak 21 

Atlantis 22 

Oblivion 23 

Caprice 24 

The Dancing Bear 25 

The Headless Statue 26 

Beata Beatrix 27 

The Days that Were 28 

Love Is Only a Memory 29 

Anthem 32 

The Dream 33 

Interlude 36 

In December 37 

Regret 38 

A Stray Glance 39 

Until Death Do Us Part 40 

Interlude 42 

Song 43 

Lyric 44 

Insufficiency 45 

Love Comes but Once 46 

n 



Deseret 47 

Song 48 

Serenade 49 

Song 50 

Interlude 52 

The Night Cometh 53 

Ad Astra 54 

It Is Quite Easy To Be Wise 55 

If I Came Back 56 

The Garden 57 

Perversity 58 

Rejoice and Complain Not 59 

The Blind Violinist 60 

The First Kiss 61 

There Are No Fetters For the Mind 62 

Across the Dinner Table 63 

In Autumn 64 

Interlude 66 

Parlor and Garret 67 

Requiem Aeternam 69 

The Gates of Sleep 70 

La Joie Fait Peur 71 

Carpe Diem 72 

With the Camels 73 

Three Score and Ten 75 

Compensation 76 

Within Thy Breast 77 

King for a Day 78 

12 



Be Ye Therefore Merciful 79 

Three Clowns and a Nightingale 80 

October Days 81 

Ballade 82 

Paraphrase 85 

Ballad of Rose Mary 87 

To F. A. C 94 

The Cry of Arcady. 

Prelude 96 

Prologue 97 

God Gave Us a Day Together 103 

Boccaccio 105 

King Cophetua 106 

The Letter 107 

At Church 108 

Upon the Bridge at Avignon 109 

Chansons des Fleurs 110 

A Princess 112 

Once More 113 

At Woodlawn 115 

The Goose Girl 117 

Love Cannot Live on Sweets Alone 118 

A Cycle of Songs 119 

Antiphone 122 

To J. T. W 123 



13 



PROEM 

Who ranks the least in love's degree 
Can best intone the songs of love, 
As blind men in dark places move 

More readily than those who see. 

They stumble not, nor do they touch 
The stones that bruise our laggard feet i 
But we have known life's bitter-sweet, 

And lived in love's clear light too much. 



14 



SEMITONES 



15 



Words are the organ-stops whereon 

The rhythmic songs of life are played, 
Ere yet the faltering hands are stayed, 

The key-board closed, the player gone. 

It is so far from thought to word 
That half the image is unseen, 

And half the harmony unheard, 

So much there is that lies between. 

Not by the outer ear alone, 

Some finer hearing may descry 
The hidden melodies that lie 

Between the tone and semitone. 



16 



SEMITONES 



INTRODUCTION 

AS a fond mother, finding all forlorn 
Her truant children, bounteously kind, 
Knowing their faults — yet willing to be blind- 
And to what imperfection they were born, 
Opens her arms to shelter them from scorn, 
So these, the errant children of my mind, 
I gather tenderly and fain would bind 
My life with theirs till both shall be outworn. 
You, my first-born, along what perilous ways, 
And far, you went ere you came here to rest ! 
And there be even those who deem you dull, 
My Benjamin, deserving only praise; 
And you, perhaps of all, I love the best 
Because no other finds you beautiful. 



17 



SONNETS 

I. 

WARMED by the soft Sicilian skies that shine 
Where the Madonian hillsides, drawing near, 
Slope to the sea, or else descending sheer, 
By steep and devious footway and incline, 
Fall to the faery vale of Proserpine, 
Faunus, reclining, piped unto my ear 
The reedy songs that serpents rise to hear, 
Half hid in tangled greenery and vine. 
Sudden a figure — solemn, filleted, 
Finger on lip as if to stay my breath — 
Parted the almond-blossoms and there stood, 
Oak-crowned, outlined against the dusky wood ; 
And when, half welcoming, some word I said, 
The answer came, "I am not Love, but Death." 



19 



II. 

THE music ceased ; the songs of life and cheer 
Were stilled; the reed went rattling to the ground; 
Beyond the fountain, momently, the sound 
Of fleeing goat- feet clattered loud and clear, 
And I, with one whom all these creatures fear, 
Alone remained; the very air around 
Partook of silence; I, no longer bound 
By Pan's enchantment, saw the mien severer 
Said to the presence, "Since thou art not Love, 
Leave me in peace."— "Aye, to the very end 
Shall peace be thine ; no more Love's torment now 
Will trouble thee, nor any passion move." 
So hearing this, I said, "Come nearer, friend, 
And let me feel thy touch upon my brow." 



20 



AT DAYBREAK 

WHEN the gray dawn was deepening into red, 
Above the hills a slowly widening zone, 
Just at the hour when earth is most alone, 
My lost love came and stood beside my bed; 
Pearl white her pinions, arching overhead, 
And in her eyes such soft compassion shone 
That all my sorrows lifted and were gone. 
"I am God's handmaid now," I thought she said, 
"And minister to them that once I knew;" 
"O why are you so kind to me?" I spoke, 
"Have you not grieved enough?" she made reply, 
And then a great peace filled me through and through; 
She leaning forward, I, poor fool, awoke, 
And saw the red light flaming in the sky. 



21 



ATLANTIS 

WHO has not seen it, high in heaven set, 
Cutting the skies in lines as clearly drawn 
As when, from Bordighera's grove at dawn, 
Far Corsica is seen in silhouette? 
Vision of purple cloud and parapet; 
Look well upon it ere the light be gone, 
For there thy dearest hope is held in pawn ; 
It is the palace of thine own regret. 
There is the land that lured thee to delight, 
Stretching away beyond those luminous spires; 
Enchanted river, wood and waterfall, 
All vanishing upon the verge of night. 
Behold the home of all thy lost desires ! 
Look upon Lethe flowing by the wall! 



22 



OBLIVION 

COULD Love abide, apportioned to our need, 
And all his bounty to our race inure ; 
Peopled by Love with all things bright and pure, 
Could Love abide, then earth were heaven indeed. 
And yet, when Love's companion, Death, we heed, 
No more we seek to know if Love be sure; 
But, rather, ask, could we this world endure 
With Love and Death to be our daily need? 
Alas, poor Love ! a thousand lowly mounds 
On every hillside mark his sure decay; 
The day declines ; the air is dark and chill ; 
Through tower and tomb the winter wind resounds; 
By household fires how many hearts are gay, 
Unmindful of the slowly darkening hill ! 



23 



CAPRICE 

EASY it was to love in the old days, 
When, for a silken girdle or a glove, 
Men moved on earth as constellations move 
In the great field of heaven before our gaze. 
Dauntless they rode along disputed ways 
And couched at night, content for very love, 
On the bare ground with the cold sky above; 
Careless were they alike of blame or praise. 
But now what hapless circumstance is mine ! 
Frowns are my arrows, glances are my spears ; 
And I oppose them with a shield of glass; 
Oppressed by fashion of these later years 
I see my lady in her carriage pass, 
Further from me than tented Palestine, 



24 



THE DANCING BEAR 

CHAINED in a brewer's vat, the wretched beast 
Feels underneath a slow unwonted fire; 
Now lifts one foot and then another higher, 
His body swaying with the flames increased, 
Enlivens merrily a village feast 
Where gaping rustics gather to admire, 
Until, with muttering and moaning dire, 
He learns, at last, to dance — that knew it least. 
And, later, in the pleasant country lanes, 
The music pulsing in the summer air, 
The merry children thronging in the place 
Remind him of that furnace of despair; 
So, to the poet, a memory remains, 
As if the tears were rolling down his face. 



25 



THE HEADLESS STATUE 

IN some forgotten Alp or Apennine 
There is a winding road — the only door 
Into a valley, like a level floor, 
Circled about with cypress and with pine. 
There, in a garden, at the day's decline, 
I sat upon a marble bench before 
A headless statue, twined with hellebore, 
Ancient as Bacchus and his wreathed vine. 
Tis Pan, with ready fingers poised above, 
Holding a flute where once his lips had been, 
But silent now, since all his song must die 
With lack of breath to utter — Ah, my love! 
How can I breathe the song that is within? 
How can I voice the heart's most bitter cry? 



26 



BEATA BEATRIX 

WOULD it were true that we shall live again 
To walk in gardens where no grief may go, 
And only gladness through life's stream shall flow, 
After this comedy of ruth and pain! 
My eyes look out, beyond the mist and rain, 
To those far fells whereon the gods bestow 
Such grace as lesser beings may not know, 
There would I journey were it not in vain. 
Ah, then what joy that final cup to drink, 
Borne by the angel that Rossetti drew ! 
So might I find thee, by some river's brink, 
Gathering those deathless flowers that never grew 
In our dark world, or anywhere, I think, 
Save in our dreams! I would that it were true! 



27 



THE DAYS THAT WERE 

THE days that were before I saw thy face — 
How distant and how shadowy they seem! 
Like the bewildered vision of a dream 
They came, they were, they vanished into space; 
Yet now I know that each day had its place 
In Life's economy — a thought supreme, 
A lovely variant of a lovely theme. 
They were not wasted; these I now retrace 
Hid in the arras hanging in thy room — 
Birds, flowers, Graces, figures manifold 
Woven of those departed days long gone ; 
And these are radiant tissues from the loom, 
Fit for thy starry garments ; this the gold 
And Tyrian for thy feet to tread upon. 



28 



LOVE IS ONLY A MEMORY 

Perhaps we are led and our loves are fated, 

And our steps are counted one by one; 
Perhaps we shall meet and our souls be mated, 
After the burnt-out sun. 

Edwin Markham. 
Just one picture hung in the room 
The saddest story that art can tell. 

T. B. Aldrich. 

SO long, so long ago 
It was, they could not know 
In what forgotten clime 
Their hearts were tuned in time, — 
By what cerulean sea 
They beat in harmony, 
The half, each single soul, 
Of one perfected whole. 

So far apart they went 

They could not be content, 

The while, from world to world, 

Their sundered souls were whirled. 

Though Time, in mercy, cast 

A veil upon the past, 

Still, as the ages grew, 

Something their spirits knew; 

Something of their old love 

Shone on them from above; 

29 



They heard incessantly 
The sound of that great sea ; 
Their souls within them burned, 
Nor knew for what they yearned. 

Again, by some strange chance 
Or sport of circumstance, 
Again upon this earth 
Their spirits had their birth; 
Again she came to him; 
Just at the outer rim 
Their circles touched — small blame 
If both broke into flame! 

Sinful it was we know, 
The wise world said 'twas so; 
And so thought one who sent 
Both to their banishment, 
And bade the lovers hark 
Back to the primal dark. 

Grim Florentine, who stood 
With Virgil in the wood, 
And on Hell's murky throat 
Your fateful legend wrote, — 



30 



Who, peering through the gloom, 
Saw Farinata's tomb, 
And saw, as in a glass, 
The murdered lovers pass, 
Could not your wit devise 
Some greater sacrifice? 

Behold their punishment! 
His eyes on her are bent, 
His arms about her thrown, 
She is not there alone; 
And he can see and hear 
All that to him is dear; 
While on them from above 
Still shines immortal love. 



31 



ANTHEM 

'Oh! that I knew where I might find Him!" 

— Book of Job. 

THINE ear is deaf; no errant word, 
In all the ages that are gone, 
Of all our praying hast Thou heard; 
Of all our mournful cries, not one. 

Thy lips are dumb; no voice of Thine 
The endless, envious years have known; 
Unto our sight has come no sign, 
Unto our waiting ears no tone. 

Thine anthem priest and pagan sing; 
They gather round Thine altar-flame; 
They worship, to whose worshiping 
No benediction ever came. 

They name with awe Thy dread abode; 
Thy dwelling they decree so far 
That all must perish by the road 
In Thought that leaps from star to star. 



32 



THE DREAM 

I KNEW it was a dream; and yet 
My feet upon that path I set, 
And followed on that winding way 
Down to the very end of day; 
Down through the ever deepening wood 
I followed far until I stood 
Where no one ever stood before. 
Above me, in the sycamore, 
The wood-owl whimpered plaintively; 
Dark water to my foot was nigh. 
It was the same, that sullen stream, 
And yet — I knew it was a dream. 

On, on into the night I went 
Until my store of strength was spent; 
And all the bitterness, the care, 
The wretchedness of life was there. 
No hope was in me to withstand 
The horror of that lonely land. 



33 



Sudden, a dwelling to my sight 
With open door was all alight. 
There was a supper-table spread; 
The guests were seated; at the head 
Were you who are my heart's despair, 
And by your side an empty chair; 
Your eyes embraced me at the door, 
"Ah, why did you not come before?" 

To me, your smile was heaven's bright beam, 
And yet — I knew it was a dream. 



34 



TRIOLETS 



35 



INTERLUDE 

/F words are only empty sound, 
What profit lies in songs like these? 
Yet we have seen the Pleiades 
In pools of water on the ground; 

Or, peering in a little glass 

No greater than a handbreadth wide, 

Beheld the lordly planets pass 

That sway the seasons and the tide. 

All that I am, or hope to be 
I strove in singing to rehearse, 
And found it in a single verse 

That holds the Pagan world — and thee. 



36 



IN DECEMBER 

IT is June when my lady goes by, 
With the sweep of her gown and her grace ; 
Though the calendar's there to deny, 
It is June when my lady goes by; 
For the warmth of the earth and the sky 

With her coming is full in my face; 
It is June when my lady goes by, 
With the sweep of her gown and her grace. 



37 



REGRET 

WHEN Doubt came in at the door 
Then Love flew out at the grating; 
But he turned for a look once more 
(When Doubt came in at the door) 
At the firelight on the floor, 

And the warm little corner waiting, 
When Doubt came in at the door 
And Love flew out at the grating. 



38 



A STRAY GLANCE 

IT was only a look she gave, 
And a strain of music dying 
Like the sound of an ebbing wave; 
It was only a look she gave, 
But we carry such to the grave 

In pay for a life's denying. 
It was only a look she gave, 
And a strain of music dying. 



39 



UNTIL DEATH DO US PART 

IT was hardly worth while to say it, 
So soon was the word forsworn; 
With a priest and a ring to stay it, 
It was hardly worth while to say it ; 
Since love and the doubt to slay it 

Of the same desire are born, 
It was hardly worth while to say it, 
So soon was the word forsworn. 



40 



LYRICS 



41 



INTERLUDE 

/WORSHIP what you might have been; 
I know it is not what you are, 
For you were like a falling star, 
A moment glorious — then unseen. 

All men must lose what most they prise; 

There is no permanency here, 

Only a memory and a tear 
And splendor failing from the skies. 



42 



SONG 

LOVE comes not to thy call, 
And stays not for thy word 
His vagrant footsteps fall 
Unseen, unheard. 

I whispered Love to stay 
A little while, a breath, 

E'en though the lingering day 
Be one with Death. 



43 



LYRIC 

THY mouth is the rosebud's hue 
Thy cheek is the eglantine; 
Thine eyes are the tender blue 
Of the lotus-flower divine. 

Bloom of the East and West 
God gave thee for thine own, 

And hid in thy flowery breast 
Instead of a heart — a stone. 



44 



INSUFFICIENCY 

SO many things I longed to say 
To her who is my heart's delight, 
I said them over day by day, 
And held them in my mind at night. 

But, when at last the moment came 
That I so long had wished might come, 

Before Love's burning altar-flame 
My tongue was mute, my lips were dumb. 



45 



LOVE COMES BUT ONCE 

ONCE, and once only, will you greet 
The guest you have so longed to see; 
Mind that the room be swept and sweet 
With lavender and rosemary. 

Once, and once only, will you hear 

At break of day that low, clear call; 
Awake! Awake! for Love is near, 

He brings his bounty to your wall. 
He brings the dawn, he brings the dew, 

He bids you open wide the gate; 
Be it with heartease or with rue, 

Say never that Love came too late! 

Once, and once only, will you greet 
The guest you have so longed to see; 

Mind that the room be swept and sweet 
With lavender and rosemary. 



46 



DESERET 

BEWARE of words; they are too fleet 
Their subtle tones our lips evade, 
As if a beggar in the street 
A viol of Amati played; 

Or, sounding some uncertain note, 
Experience with Expression strove, 

As when a weakling to his throat 
Had set the hunting-horn of Jove. 



47 



SONG 

THY voice is in the whispering wind, 
Thy breath is in the breeze; 
Thy dwelling-place I may not find 

Among the murmuring trees; 
On earth I know not where thou art, 
Save in the longing of my heart. 

And when to heaven I lift my eyes 

Among the stars above, 
I cannot find thee in the skies; 

Thou art not there, my love; 
In truth I know not where thou art, 
Save in the longing of my heart. 



48 



SERENADE 

DARK lies your scented garden 
That blossoms red and white, 
Faint with the breath of roses, 
Wet with the dews of night. 

No flower falls from your window, 
For me no light will shine; 
The gods of life's undoing 
Took care of yours and mine. 

And only in your slumber, 
Where we alone may meet 
Across the fields of Dreamland, 
I come to you, my Sweet. 



49 



SONG 

SOMETHING there was of sorrow, 
Something there was of wrong; 
And all was wrought in sadness 

Into a little song. 
Something there was of longing, 
Something there was of woe; 
And all was bound in melody 
A hundred years ago. 



Something there is of darkness, 

Veiling a deeper dream 
Of long-remembered music 

Heard in the twilight gleam. 
I wonder who is singing, 

And how she came to know 
That someone was heart-broken 

A hundred years ago? 



50 



INTERLUDE 



51 



TjffE P a y the price for what we gain, 
r r Nothing is given, all is bought; 

And, at the barrier of thought, 
Our gold is balanced, grain for grain. 

For, when the nightingale sings best 
And all the darkling hedgerows hear, 

It is a thorn against his breast 

That makes the tone so liquid clear. 

True art is sorrow crowned with art; 
He pays who, for a little fame, 
Hearing at last the loud acclaim, 

Hides, from the world a broken heart. 



52 



THE NIGHT COMETH 

WHEN I shall be among the wise, 
With one thought folded in my breast- 
A brother to the Centuries, 
I shall not know you when you pass, 
Nor feel your footfall on the grass. 

O tell me now, while I may hear, 

And heal my hurt and give me rest; 
Speak to me now, the dusk is near ; 
Speak to me, dearest, ere the night 
Shall blot you from my mind and sight. 



53 



AD ASTRA 

SO bitter is the bread I eat, 
So close my life runs to the lees, 
That I would be a child, my Sweet, 

And weep my heart out at thy knees. 

Yet do I honor thee no less 

To be thy lover, though as far 

As Hagar in the wilderness, 

And thou as distant as a star. 



54 



IT IS QUITE EASY TO BE WISE 

THE word is passed, the seal is set, 
I must not love you any more; 
We now have only to forget 

And all will be as once before. 

It is quite easy to be wise 

And lay our memories to rest, 
But who can say they will not rise 
Like odors from a sandal chest 

That lies in some neglected room, 
With brazen lock securely fast, 

All redolent with faint perfume 
To make us mindful of the past. 



55 



IF I CAME BACK 

IF I came back at the dead of night, 
And pillowed my head where once it lay, 
Would you welcome me with the old delight, 

In the same fond words you were wont to say? 
Or flee from my arms in sheer affiright? 

When the dying day and the darkness blend, 

If I came back from my lowly bed, 
How would our greeting begin, or end? 

"Love me forever," of old you said; 
So tell, which would it be, my friend? 



56 



THE GARDEN 

THY heart is like a garden close, 
With butterfly and floweret gay, 
Wherein narcissus and the rose 

And pansies vie in sweet array. 

And there do Joy and Grief abide. 

Thy gardeners ; the sun and rain, 
Joint almoners with wind and tide, 

Do bring thy pleasure and thy pain. 

If I may only look therein, 

Or lean a moment on the wall, 

I am more blest than I had been 
With angels in their heavenly hall. 



57 



PERVERSITY 

(Dolores Sings) 

HE whom I love with all my mind, 
To me is hardly more than kind, 
Because his recreant soul is set 
Upon a faithless, cold coquette. 

And she will scarcely look his way, 
But seeks another soul to sway; 
Yet is her wish in vain — this one, 
Alas ! has eyes for me alone. 



58 



REJOICE AND COMPLAIN NOT 

YOU love her with your heart and mind; 
With others she is frank and gay, 
Familiar, open as the day; 
To you alone she seems unkind, 
Reserved and distant, disinclined 
To smile, or even look your way. 
For, womanlike, she long has known 
How close your thought is to her own ; 
And, womanlike, she will not care 
To let her own eyes linger where 
Your eyes like burning stars are set. 
Fool! would you wish her to forget? 



59 



THE BLIND VIOLINIST 

WHO taught thee that mysterious smile? 
Whence came that wondrous tone? 
"I saw thee, dear, a little while 
Ere yet the day had flown." 

Some in the sunshine lose their sight, 
And some with tears and pain; 

Some look their last on all delight — 
And never see again. 



60 



THE FIRST KISS 

DROP on this fallen clay 
The tear thou wouldst not shed 
Unto this dull ear say 

The word before unsaid. 

Leave to their silence now 

The lips thou wouldst not press, 
And on this passive brow 

Let fall thy first caress. 



61 



THERE ARE NO FETTERS FOR THE MIND 

THERE are no manacles to bind 
My thought of thee ; no axe to kill ; 
No chains, no fetters for the mind, 
And I may worship where I will. 

So, while by day and day apart 
We drink of bitterness our fill, 

In the rose-chamber of my heart 

I may embrace and love thee still. 



62 



ACROSS THE DINNER TABLE 



T 



HY face in tangled hair is set; 
So sits the spider in his net. 



Thine eyes invite the soul's desire ; 
So burns the opal's baleful fire. 

Lithe art thou in thy silken sheen 
As the green serpent in his green ; 

Not with an appetite more nice 
Amina picked her grains of rice, 

Ere, from her lips with languorous breath, 
Her lover drank the dews of death. 



63 



IN AUTUMN 

THE new moon, like a scimitar, 
Hangs in the darkening sky; 
The sounds of earth are hushed and far, 
As they'll be when we die; 

Wind-swept the boundless plain below, 

The bare boughs overhead, 
And the whirling leaves that come and go 

As they will when we are dead. 

I, sunk with unremembered men, 
You, in your marble pride ; 

What will we be to each other then — 
Who have already died? 



64 



INTERLUDE 



65 



T/ff^E' cannot keep what we have won; 
rr Relentless to the end we move; 

The noblest work, the purest love, 
Must die with the decadent sun. 

The radiance falling from afar, 

To shine on worlds already dead, 
Is tinctured with the baleful red 

That marks the cooling of a star. 

Mons are but a little span; 

The worst will soon be as the best; 

The plummet swings from east to west, 
All, all must end as it began. 

So little hope, so little trust! 

Yet is my flower of life decreed 

To bloom for thee, in thought and deed, 

Until we mingle with the dust. 



6b 



PARLOR AND GARRET 

TM 'f HO EVER feels that he would not like to 
rr think out to the end every thought that 
comes into his mind should turn away from art. 

He who would be an artist must melt 

down everything" 

— George Moore. 



THE Pharisee is smug and clean ; 
He thinks the thoughts that others think, 
And does the things that others do; 
His neighbor's path he follows through, 
Stops at his neighbor's well to drink; 
All his imagining is mean; 
No room is in his narrow creed 
For nature; he, with all his kind, 
In every parlor in the land, 
Hates what he does not understand; 
Unto the inner light is blind, 
Is envious in thought and deed. 

In poverty, unkempt and wild, 
Uncomprehended, slighted, blamed, 
The artist with his own thought stays, 
And gives the world an answering gaze, 
As innocent and unashamed 
In spirit as a little child. 

67 



From his own thought he cannot shrink 
All things are tribute to his art; 
No fear is his, no littleness; 
The truth he labors to express; 
Fidelity is in his heart, 
And faith is more than meat and drink. 
Rather would I be one of these 
To live away from all my kind, 
And season with salt tears my bread, 
Having no place to lay my head, 
Yet hold Truth's image in my mind, 
Than dwell among the Pharisees. 



68 



REQUIEM ^TERNAM 

LET this be graven on the tomb, 
That they may learn who loved thee best, 
"Whoever to this place may come, 
Lord, give them an eternal rest!" 

Let not their naked souls be blown 
By winds that wander in the dark, 

Nor yet from shore to shore, unknown, 
Be borne by Charon in his bark! 

But let the kindly earth enfold 

All that was born at Earth's behest ; 

And, best of all Thy hand can hold, 
Lord, give them an eternal rest! 



69 



THE GATES OF SLEEP 

ALL day those portals shine afar, 
They glisten in the sun; 
An angel sets the door ajar 
When the long day is done. 

Silver and gray his vestments are, 
And, with unerring hand, 

He leads us where a single star 
Lights all the solemn land. 

The dwellers in that star-lit space 
Are not the friends we see, 

But those who, with averted face, 
Departed silently. 

Angel of night, lead on apace! 

The doors of Sleep unbar, 
And guide me to that trysting-place 

Lit by a single star! 



70 



LA JOIE FAIT PEUR 

I FEAR no enemy's device; 
No harm can reach my soul's retreat 
Nor loneliness, nor sacrifice 
Can turn nw purpose to defeat. 
I know that death is but a call 
Back to the place from whence we came; 
There is no future to appal, 
No circle of eternal flame. 
I fear not fate, for I am made 
Of sterner stuff than those who quail. 
But, at the touch of joy I bleed; 
With happiness I faint and fail, 
When comfort comes I am afraid ; 
Ah, then I am a coward indeed. 



CARPE DIEM 

THREE things I would not know, 
The day when I shall go 
Unheralded, alone, 
Into the All Unknown; 

Nor where, by land or sea, 
My level bed shall be; 
Nor what my Love will do, 
When I with life am through. 



72 



WITH THE CAMELS 

ABROAD, in the misty city, 
The great gray houses loom ; 
Over the roofs of London 
I see them from my room. 

Over the roofs of London 

I see the fine rain fall, 

And my eyes turn from the window 

To a picture on the wall. 

My eyes turn from the window; — 
And the sky is warm and blue 
Clear to the edge of the desert 
Where the caravan came through ; 

Clear to the edge of the desert 
Stretches the sunlit sky, 
Over the sands of Asia 
As the camel train goes by; 



73 



Over the sands of Asia 
The wandering tribesmen fare, 
Each on the back of his camel, 
Rugged and brown and bare; 

Each on the back of his camel 
Muffled and gaunt and grim, 
They dream of the palm tree growing 
On the desert's utmost rim; 

They dream of the palm tree growing 
Where the waters leap and flow. 
Over the roofs of London 
The shadows are dark and low ; 

Over the roofs of London 
There is only grime and gloom; — 
But we are afar where the camels are, 
The star-spring and the bloom. 



74 



THREE SCORE AND TEN 

THE ruined roof is prone to fall, 
Where built the swallows long before 
The gate hangs rusty on the wall; 

The path is grass-grown to the door. 

Gray lichens moulder in the place 

Where once the honeysuckle grew; 

Gone is the glamour, gone the grace; 
The Old remains to mock the New. 

Time works his pleasure, good or ill; 

He touches part, but not the whole; 
Lo, from the crumbling casement, still 

Looks out the indomitable soul. 



75 



COMPENSATION 

TO all sad souls who walk with Truth, 
Knowing the world regards not well 
Artist or singer, age or youth, 

A voice comes ringing like a bell. 

Across the interminable years, 

It sounds from Weimar's lonely towers,. 
"Who never ate his bread with tears, 
He knows you not, ye heavenly powers !" 

The giant hand that writ the word, 
Long since has fallen to decay; 

That mighty heart, with passion stirred, 
At last "compounded is with clay." 

But what shall quench the voice that said, 
"Who never, through the wakeful hours 

Of night, sat weeping on his bed, 

He knows you not, ye heavenly powers 1* 



76 



WITHIN THY BREAST 

UNWEARIED through the dust and din, 
And through the day that blinds us all, 
The sturdy laborer within 

Taps with his hammer on the wall. 

The night is made for rest and peace, 

The laborer should slumber long; 
And will thy knocking never cease, 

Now sounding low, now sounding strong? 

And must thou labor night and day? 

Who bids thee toil so late, my friend? 
"My workshop is this wall of clay; 

Tis my own coffin I must mend." 



77 



KING FOR A DAY 

WHO, down this busy street 
In glittering pomp and pride, 
With tramp of horse's feet 

Comes in such state to ride? 

One who, erewhile unknown 
On some small errand bent, 

Along this road, alone, 

Unnoticed came and went. 

But now men stand apart 

To give his progress room ; 

The pedlar turns his cart, 

The weaver quits his loom ; 

And children leave their play 
To see the splendor pass, 

With plumes of black and gray 
And panoply of glass. 

So, lest our common clay 

Lack all ennobling, 
Death, for a single day, 

Makes ever}' man a king. 



73 



BE YE THEREFORE MERCIFUL 

SO rudely into being thrust, 
We know not whence we come, nor why; 
A little dew above the dust; 
A little fragrance ere we die. 
How scant the blosoms that we cull ! 
Even our joys are pitiful; 
We dance, we sing, and over all 
Projects the shadow of the pall. 

In silk attire we are at ease 

Because some others toil and sweat; 

We do not sleep, but one of these 

Keeps watch, whose eyes with tears are wet; 

We do not eat, but some brute life 

Is bludgeoned into endless night; 

Oh, is there not enough of strife, 

Enough of pain, enough of blight? 

Or, is the world no longer young, 

And Love no better than a name, 

That one should steal the serpent's tongue 

To blast another soul to shame? 



79 



THREE CLOWNS AND A NIGHTINGALE 



T 



HREE clowns, a bird imprisoning, 
Tried, each in turn, to make it sing. 



The first, withholding drink and food, 
Left it to pine in solitude. 

The second pinched and hurt the bird; 
But still no note of song was heard. 

The third clown sat beneath a tree; 
"I'll bide my time, sweet bird," quoth he. 

Ere long the night was in the sky, 
And the forest rang with melody. 



80 



OCTOBER DAYS 

ORARE October days! Ye leave your strange 
Foreshades of things ideal everywhere; 
Autumnal glory crowns the mountain range; 
Autumnal rapture floods the tranced air; 
Steeped in a golden languor sleeps the sky, 

As sinks the drowsy sun into his rest, 
Where burning clouds in crimson masses lie 
Athwart the glowing portal of the west. 

The waning sunshine softens over all; 

Unto the music of sweet-voiced rills 
Enchanted lights and shadows rise and fall 

Within the charmed circle of the hills; 
The hazy wold a magic vision seems ; 

The far-off heights a fairy glamour take; 
And distant headlands, dim as summer dreams, 

Immerge their purple shadows in the lake. 

From the brown stubble-fields on either side 

Is heard the mellow piping of the quail; 
And, from an opal sky, faint-flushed and wide, 

The Hunter's moon looks down, serene and pale; 
On steeps remote the parting sunbeams rest ; 

Illusive shapes the bosky hollows fill ; 
Then twilight shades the quiet glens invest, 

And all is dim, and mystical, and still. 



81 



BALLADE 

IN what domain of earth or sky 
Are you whom I have found so fair? 
Whose perfect grace my lines imply ; 
Whose loveliness is my despair; 
To what dim court shall I repair, 
With sonnet, song and roundelay, 

To charm your footstep to the stair? 
I do not know, I cannot say. 

What wondrous lights and shadows lie 

In Isabella's auburn hair! 
Her mouth is just a bit awry. 

Clarice is blithe and debonair; 

To hear her voice I hardly care: 
Estella has your eyes of gray. 

How came her nose so tipped in air? 
I do not know, I cannot say. 

Sweet Alice renders sigh for sigh; 

Her smile is fitted to ensnare; 
She holds her gown a trifle high; 

Her ankle — well, that's her affair. 



82 



But, on a crowded thoroughfare 
In crossing on a windy day, 

I fear there's nothing much to spare; 
I do not know, I cannot say. 



83 



L'ENVOI 

Your colors in my casque I wear ; 

I will adore you while I may; 
Dear Goddess, are you anywhere? 

I do not know, I cannot say. 



84 



PARAPHRASES 



To Whom It May Concern 
From the French of Alfred De Musset 

MY sisters, in grace and guile, 
One fatal gift you share; 
To entrance Man with a smile 
And delude him to despair. 

A laugh we can hardly hear; 

A look, an unspoken word, 
When one who loves you is near, 

May cut his heart like a sword. 

He turns away his head 

And hides the wound in his breast; 
Yet, truly, when all is said, 

I count his part the best. 

He turns his face aside; 

But his is the nobler part; 
Better the martyr's pride 

Than the headsman's habile art! 



85 



La Vie 

From the French 

HOW vain the comedy of life! 
A little hate, a little strife; 
A look uplifted to the sky; 
A laugh, a bow, and then — good-by. 

How brief the spell that holds us here! 

A little hope, a little fear; 

A little love, a little light; 

A wish outworn, and then — good-night. 



86 



THE BALLAD OF ROSE MARY 



IN heaven a calm, clear night befell, 
A time of stars on high, 
And all the prisoners in hell, 
Each from his horror haunted cell, 
Looked out upon the sky. 

Then, chief among the sounds of pain 
And songs of sacrifice, 
One soul took up the old refrain. 
"O send me back to earth again," 
Above all bitter cries. 

"When I was wed with bell and ring 
My heart by man was won ; 

I loved not God nor anything 
But him who was my lord and king, 
For this I am undone. 

"Because I loved not God alone 

My soul is cast aside; 
How could I be in love with one 
Whose presence I had never known, 

Or be a spirit bride?" 

"I loved the thing He sent to prove 
My faith, and set apart ; 
I held it all the world above, 
I gave it all my human love, 

And hugged it to my heart." 

87 



"For this I am in bitter woe 
And live in endless pain; 
Ah, that an angel would bestow 
One gift of heaven and let me go 
Back to the earth again 1" 

"My body lies beneath a stone, 

By death yet undented; 
The sorrow is not all my own; 
Those that I love are left alone, 

My husband and my child." 

"A twelve-month more has passed away 
With Winter, Summer, Spring; 
Soon comes again the boreal day, 
With wind that smote me where I lay 
And left them sorrowing." 

"At morn he leaves his lonely bed 

To labor with his hands; 
The wind beats down upon his head, 
Yet must another mouth be fed 
With harvest from the lands." 

"I hear the farm-latch click at night, 

I see the cattle come; 
And, in the mellow evening light 
The swallows circle in their flight 

Round what was once our home." 



"He lifts the latch — the fire is dead, 

Upon the hearth no spark; 
No flame to make the rafters red, 
There is no supper table spread, 
And all the house is dark." 

"The rats run riot in the gloom, 

They clatter in the hall; 
His refuge is a lonely room 
That needs a basin and a broom, 
And needs me most of all." 

"Ah! once I was his hands and feet, 
His lamp, his light, his life, 

His wine to drink, his bread to eat; 

Behold him maimed and incomplete, 
A man without a wife I" 

"The young, warm body that I had 
Lies stiff beneath a stone ; 

My limbs in cerements now are clad; 

Be merciful lest I go mad 
And perish here alone!" 

High o'er the dreadful towers of hell, 

Only the cruel stars 
Give ear unto the souls that dwell, 
Each in his separate sunken cell, 

Pent in by prison bars. 

89 



The plague of hell, the bitterness, 

Is not of fire and chains; 
The spirit knows its own distress, 
Is eaten up with loneliness, 

And nothing more remains. 

II. 
Once in a year, it is decreed, 

An angel of the Lord 
Comes down from heaven, to intercede 
And stand before hell's gate, and read 

Some sanctifying word. 

Then Satan, with his high courtesy 

And chivalrous intent, 
Deigns, with a mock humility, 
A single spirit to set free 

From hell's environment. 

So when the angel came again, 

And stood with drooping wings, 
He heard the piteous refrain, 
And begged the soul's release from pain 
Above all other things. 

Her body lay beneath a stone 

By death yet undented ; 
No ghastly change her flesh had known, 
Her face had even lovelier grown 

As if she slept and smiled 
90 



The name they gave her at her birth 

Was graven on the stone. 
Ah, faithless one, how little worth 
To love her when she was on earth 
And not when she was gone ! 

She did not dream, she could not know 

A thought so fugitive, 
For she was one of those who grow 
To love us when we are laid low, 

As well as when we live. 

The calm, the cruel stars looked out 
On field and farm and fold ; 

The pump was frozen at the spout; 

The watch-dog dragged his chain about 
And whimpered with the cold. 

Not with the savor of decay, 

As other forms have come, 
But fresh as on her wedding day 
Rose Mary came along the way 
To what was once her home. 

Her heart, ah, who can tell how glad, 

How firm it was, how brave ! 
In her own raiment she was clad, 
The warm, sweet body that she had 
Was risen from the grave. 
91 



How grateful after long exile, 

How glad we cannot know ; 
But round her lips the spirit smile 
Caressed her mouth and eyes, the while, 

As in the ground below. 

There stood the farm before her sight, 

The roofs all round about; 
The gates were wide, the rooms were bright, 
The windows cast great squares of light 

Upon the road without. 

Alas, for love and sacrifice 

In days that went before! 
Terror was there, and quick surprise, 
But naught of kindness in the eyes 

That saw her at the door. 

Ah, that another should embrace 

The lips that once were hers ! 
She saw the horror in his face; 
There was no welcome in that place 

For spirit trespassers. 
* * * 

Far better that the dead should sleep 

Through everlasting years; 
They cannot rise, the grave is deep; 
They do not know the faith we keep 

With hypocritic tears. 

92 



When once the funeral bell is tolled 

No welcome waits above; 
If one were risen from the mold, 
The man would come to claim his gold, 
The wife to claim her love. 



93 



TO F. A. C. 

I WOULD these little songs of mine 
To some neglected land might be 
Borne, as upon an Indian sea, 
Not for the world's behoof, but thine. 

Borne to a land where we alone 

Might dwell on some forgotten shore, 
And only hear the ocean's roar, 

And not the critic's caviling tone. 

Small then my audience, but rare; 

My frailest lines would bring delight, 
As dullard children, in the night, 

Are wrapped with tenderness and care. 



94 



THE CRY OF ARCADY 



95 



TJTfHOSO would soundly sleep o'nights 
r r 'Twere well at home he stayed; 

To taste of Arcady's delights 
The piper must be paid. 

It may be better to forget 

Those formal flowers and leaves; 

Perchance those hollows are beset 
With vagabonds and thieves. 

But something pulses in the blood 

And stirs within the brain, 
And drives thee from thy quietude 

To walk in wind and rain. 

And something draws thee to the ring 

That dances round the tree; 
Behold thy spirit echoing 

The cry of Arcady! 



96 



THE CRY OF ARCADY 



PROLOGUE 

SHE was a woman fitted to enthrall 
The soul, and senses. All who saw her pass 
Turned to regard her; such distinction lay 
In all her deeds, in every word and thought; 
Did she but cross a room there was no act 
So common, or so small, but she adorned, 
And by her touch made different and divine. 

Her voice upon the ear was low and sweet ; 

Now tremulous with violoncello tones, 

Now tuneful as the singing clarionet; 

Her eyes changed with her thought, now clear and 

pure, 
Now blazing like the sapphires of Ceylon; 
Her lips were altars for the fire of love; 
To look upon them was the heart's despair. 

He was a poet melancholy, poor; 

Not in material things, but poor in thought 

And starved in spirit ; by repression dulled 

As by surroundings ; poor, the most of all, 

In that he lacked the jewel of her love. 

There were, in truth, a thousand reasons why 

She should not love him, and she knew them all; 

97 



Yet in divine compassion did she pause, 
Like Laura on the bridge, that he might brush 
Against her mantle — much as when the Christ 
Stood in the crowd and through His garment's hem 
Felt that some good went from Him. 

But one day, 
One regal day when heaven and earth were wed, 
When all the buds were broken and every bird 
Sang to its mate — one perfect day in June 
Her heart, most like a wild rose bourgeoning, 
Alive with loveliness burst into bloom. 
She was in love with Love; it was not he, 
But his despair, that drew her to his side , 
And made them one, that day and evermore. 

II. 

Then, while upon that mound you sat 
Beneath the spreading oak, and heard 
The twitter of the timid bird, 
And saw a squirrel, round and fat, 
Look wisely at you from above, 
I gathered flowers for you to weave 
Into a chaplet; these I brought 
And watched your fingers deftly move 
Among the blossoms. 

By your leave 
Forth from their deftly-hidden place I drew 
Two volumes bound in vellum, white and blue, 



98 



Of the Rossettis; songs of death and love, 
Gabriel's despair, Christina's mournful thought. 
Then, lying at your feet, aloud I read, 
With frequent pauses, which the purling brook 
Filled with a rhythm, like that within the book. 

My thought to Dante Gabriel did incline; 

You liked Christina best. "Uphill," you said 

Is of all calls to death the most divine. 

And with one song I saw your eyes were wet, 

"Haply I may remember and haply may forget." 

While I, with Dante, felt the wind and brine, 

"The sighing sound, the sweet keen smell," once more 

Say to my soul, "You have been here before." 

I spoke to you of Gabriel and his bride, 

So comely in her form, in mind so poor, 

And wondered that he took her to his door, 

And hid his songs her coffined form beside. 

But you were enigmatic, and replied, 

"Judge not, lest ye be judged; we cannot say 

What men will do when love shall come their way." 

I read no more; but listened while you told 
Of the great northland lying far away, 
Where in the summer it is always day, 
So white the nights beneath the circling sun ; 
Where in the winter day is scarce begun 







Ere it is quenched in night and bitter cold; 
Of flaming skies illumined by the light 
Shed by Aurora leaping from the pole 
Clear to the zenith, crackling chill and white, 
A phanton gleam to fill with awe the soul. 

A land of larch and pine, in which the winds 
Made music weirdly all the year around; 
A land where lakes and waterfalls abound 
With rugged hills, that stretch out in long lines, 
And lowland meadows checkered by great farms, 
Replete with grain and all the green earth yields; 
And sturdy people working in the fields, 
And poets nurtured in the solemn pines. 

Your accent to the tale gave added charms, 
Till we forgot our quiet little glade 
Wherein we sat beneath the oak tree's shade. 
Just at high noon, the pivot of the day, 
Came from the inn a much desired panier, 
From which we drew — a sight to cheer our hearts- 
Cold eggs and caviare and cheese and tarts, 
Which laughingly upon a cloth we spread 
And breakfasted. The world to us was dead. 

III. 
That afternoon beneath us lay 
A valley. Miles on miles away 
Through purple hills a river wound, 

100 



And field on field of furrowed ground, 
With clusters ripening for the vat, 
Rose to the terrace where we sat. 

I know not in what angel's guise 

You came that day, or what you said. 

You were so lovely to my eyes, 

Your hair, the turning of your head, 

The wandering flush that came and fled 

From cheek and brow and came again; 

Were aught inelegant or plain, 

Awkward or commonplace or dull, 

Your touch had made it beautiful. 

Our talk was idle wandering chat 

Of things we knew and things unseen, 

Of men and books, of this and that, 

With lingering pauses left between ; 

I like a page, and you a queen. 

And when your voice the silence broke, 

Sometimes your secret thought you spoke. 

I less of mine, and still I knew 

You understood me, through and through. 



101 



Two things are not for words to tell ; 
And one is sorrow for the dead, 
And one is love. We know full well 
Tis better being left unsaid; 
Since love by memory is fed, 
Surely no touch of time shall mar 
A moment set so high and far. 

***** 
That morning never came to pass ; 

That afternoon is but a dream; 

The river and the sunset gleam 

I only see as in a glass ; 

Yet well I know how it would seem 

To sit beside that woodland stream, 

Or watch with you the evening shine 

On some fair hill beside the Rhine. 



102 



GOD GAVE US A DAY TOGETHER 

THE morning of that day, the sun 
Was like a jewel of rich hue; 
A myriad lesser jewels shone 
Revealed in every drop of dew, 
And all bird-voices were as one. 

When we set forth upon our way 
Our path led through the meadows gay, 
With hawthorn hedgerows white and green, 
Where blue and yellow blooms were strown, 
All redolent of new mown hay; 
While grasshoppers and honey-bees 
Were making holiday at ease, 
So fresh the morning of that day. 

Then through a wood of fragrant pine, 
Where shadows lay upon the ground 
With flecks of sunlight sown between, 
Whereon your footprints followed mine 
So close the trees were hedged around. 
Behind my own I heard your tread, 
And had no need to turn my head, 
So lovingly I knew the sound. 



103 



At last we came upon a glade, 

A happy vale, all ringed about 

With a rose thicket; in the shade 

Of a huge oak a grassy mound 

Invoked repose; nearby we found 

A brook with reeds upon the brink, 

Where thirsty cattle came to drink, 

With fishes darting in and out, 

And wild flowers growing on the marge 

And there our spirits were at large, 

And there I looked into your eyes ; 

We had said little on the way, 

So filled we were with glad surprise 

That God had given us that day. 



104 



BOCCACCIO 

ONE day I read how brave Sir Frederick, 
Bereft alike of fortune, love and fame, 
Sat in his garden, weary, lone and sick, 
In sight of Florence; how his lady came, 
Upon some selfish quest and found him there, 
And dined with him within that garden fair. 
And I remember how the tale ran on, 
With Tuscan pride, a falcon seethed in wine 
And death and wedding bells and joy divine, 
All this I read in The Decameron. 

I wonder if such gentleness and grace, 
Compassion, pride and all that courtly train 
Were ever in the world a little space; 
Or were they only in Boccaccio's brain? 



105 



KING COPHETUA 

SHE sat upon his jeweled throne 
With gold and purple overlaid; 
In regal state she sat alone 
In all her rags — a beggar maid. 

The steps that mounted to the throne 
Of chalcedony were and jade; 

Through pictured domes the daylight shone 
And fell upon the beggar maid. 

While, wondering if they saw or dreamed, 
Above, two princely children strayed 

Along the gallery, and seemed 
To smile upon the beggar maid. 

He cast aside his kingly crown ; 

Aside his costly armor laid, 
When on the steps he knelt him down, 

And bowed before the beggar maid. 

O happy King! O blissful dream! 

O deathless dream, that will not fade! 
So shall thy love a princess seem, 

Though she be but a beggar maid. 



106 



THE LETTER 

IF you wrote me a letter it would be 
Most like a blossom falling from a tree, 
When purple lilacs bloom, and everything 
Is bathed in all the wondrous light of spring- 
As if I looked up for a little space, 
And felt the blossom fall upon my face. 



107 



AT CHURCH 

I HEAR the solemn organ sound; 
I see the sunlight fall 
From painted windows all around 
Upon the paneled wall. 

Again I hear the preacher say, 

"Behold a little leaven ! 
Accept salvation while ye may, 

And lift your hearts to heaven." 

I know that you are kneeling there, 

Devout as you are wont; 
A little gleam of neck and hair, 

The fourth pew from the front. 

And if my thought from heaven will stray, 

God will forgive me, dear; 
For heaven is very far away, 

And you are very near. 



108 



UPON THE BRIDGE AT AVIGNON 

UPON the bridge at Avignon, 
The day when Laura passed, 
And Petrarch touched her purple robe, 
No look on him she cast. 

And, where the stones of Florence 
Were worn with Dante's tread, 

Was never sign of Beatrice, 
For she was with the dead. 

Upon the bridge at Avignon 

The sun, this afternoon, 
Shines down upon your silken gown 

And little high-heeled shoon. 

I cannot sing as Petrarch sang ; 

I wield not Dante's pen; 
But you, my dear, have made me here 

The happiest of men. 



109 



CHANSONS DES FLEURS 

I. 

Mignonette 
Elles souffraient comme nous. 

THE violet and the mignonette, 
They watch the whole night through ; 
At early morn their eyes are wet 
With tears that shine like dew. 

One looking east, the other west, 

They sorrow silently; 
They have some secret in the breast, 

Unknown to bird or bee. 

Their eyes at early morn are wet ; 

They watch the whole night through ; 
The violet and the mignonette, 

They suffer — as we do. 

II. 

Eglantine 

When over us the eglantine 
On some green mound shall wave, 

The blossoms growing over mine 
Will lean towards your grave. 

Our bodies, in the brown earth set, 

Perforce must be apart; 
But these pale flowers will not forget 

What once was in the heart. 

110 



III. 

The Rose 

Wind that blows from the west 

Over the garden bed, 
Which do we love the best — 

The white rose, or the red; 

Wind that blows from the south, 

We know not which is best ; 
The red rose is her mouth, 

The white rose is her breast. 

IV. 

Harebells 

Ring, elfin bells ; unto the tune 
That followed where the fairies went 

With Pierrot and Claire de Lune, 
And song-birds when their wings were spent. 

Where honey-bee and oriole, 
And tales that little folk invent, 

Bring to that Garden of the Soul 
Some echo of the old content. 



ill 



N 



A PRINCESS 

O moated tower or battlement 

Frowns on her Castle of Content. 



No armied host her banner waves; 
Her beauty makes all men her slaves. 

Her treasure-house contains no store 
Save her own thoughts — she needs no more. 

No jewel on her front is seen; 
Her manner marks her as a queen. 

Resplendent in her simple dress 

And crowned with her own loveliness. 

For her no cloth of gold is spread; 
She walks upon men's hearts instead. 



112 



ONCE MORE 

SO long the night had never seemed, 
I was so worn with pain, 
Until I fell asleep, and dreamed 
I was a child again. 

Beneath the window of a room 
That well my memory knows, 

The apple trees were all in bloom 
In long and level rows. 

There came, with noisy, clucking call, 

The old hen and her brood; 
While over by the orchard wall 

My father's oxen stood. 

And on the meadow path beyond 

I saw my comrades pass, 
Where once unto the swimming pond 

We trod the beaten grass. 



113 



The shadows on the garden bed 
Grew longer in the light; 

I never saw the sky so red, 
Or saw the trees so white. 

It was a dream that held me still; 

Once more, for memory's sake, 
I had my little life to kill, 

My little heart to break. 



114 



AT WOODLAWN 

LEAVING behind the noisy street, 
Where sordid life and social hate 
Glare at me through the dust and heat, 

I pass beyond the iron gate, 
And see beneath an azure sky 

A thousand Grecian temples shine, 
And walk where early violets lie 
With daffodil and columbine. 

These grassy mounds ; those granite towers, 

Crept over by the clambering rose — 
Who knows how many hearts like our 

Within their fastnesses repose? 
How many, in those Doric tombs 

Smiled on by the refulgent west, 
Lie singly in their narrow rooms, 

And wot not that they are at rest? 



115 



How wonderful to be long dead 

In summer warmth and winter snow, 
With day and darkness overhead, 

Or light of moons — and not to know ! 
Ah! once, if for an hour alone 

Such peace their parched lives had known,- 
If once upon the soul such balm 

For one hour only had been laid, 
They would have waked, serene and calm, 

Forever after unafraid. 



116 



THE GOOSE GIRL 

NO echo floated through the wood, 
Nor song-thrush in the thicket stirred 
Too deep for any man or bird 
The enchanted forest where she stood. 

And if some sound there entered in, 
As when she turned to call her geese, 
Was it the wind above the trees, 

Or sobbing of a violin? 

About the bodice of her frock 

Her hair like falling water fell; 

Ah ! heedless woodman, it were well 
To follow with her charmed flock. 

If one into that wood might pass, 
A prince — what magic it would be, 
To live the things we only see 

By vision, darkly, in a glass! 



117 



LOVE CANNOT LIVE ON SWEETS ALONE 

LOVE cannot live on sweets alone, 
Or follow only paths of ease; 
For all too soon his valor flown, 
He comes to walk on feeble knees. 

But love on stronger meat must feed, 
Or, haply, from the table rise 

With only hunger for his meed, 
And bitter herbs of sacrifice. 



118 



A CYCLE OF SONGS 

I. 

WHOSE lightly treading feet, withal, 
Were never formed on earth to fall; 
And, coming to their own, those eyes 
Were meant to look on paradise. 

But when, in heaven, He fashioned you 
Of light and spirit, fire and dew, 
And paused His perfect work to see, 
God, in His mercy, thought of me. 



119 



II. 

If you should cease to love me, dear, 
How dark my mind would be, 

Though every blossom of the year 
Were white upon the tree! 

Though skies were bright above me 
With all that spring can give, 

If you should cease to love me, 
I should not care to live. 



120 



III. 

At night in dreams I hold thee, 
When on my couch I rest ; 

Closely my arms enfold thee, 
And clasp thee to my breast. 

Outside the dancers gather, 

With flute and violin, 
And faintly through my window 

Their merriment comes in. 

But always in my dreaming, 
We mingle tear with tear; 

And the sound of our own sobbing 
Is the only sound we hear. 

I know not why, my darling, 
Such dreams should come to me ; 

I wake — and I am weeping 
Alone, and silently. 



121 



ANTIPHONE 

They search too far, who seek Thee there, 
When Thou art near, in flower and sheaf ; 

Thou art the answer and the prayer, 
Alike believer and belief. 



/ 



122 



TO J. T. W. 

THERE is a fellowship in Art; 
As one sees in a desert land 
An unknown footprint in the sand, 
And feels his trembling camel start, 

And fares unto the journey's end, 
Where in a tent when day is flown 
He sits in Arab fashion down, 

With bread and salt, — to find a friend. 



123 



From Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

The gift of your book of poetic "Semitones," richly 
bound for me with the care which means affection, and 
the taste dear to a book-lover, and with the unexpected 
dedication at its portal, has given me pleasure when I 
chance most to need it. 

Many writers, during long, yet swift-flown years, have 
honored me by placing my name in print after their 
title pages; I have a little cabinet of the books, and 
love them. Let me say in all sincerity that I am not 
only touched, but honored by your thought of me in 
sending out this collection of poems, which have a charm 
of structure and feeling which is always modern, and 
which, although the expression of yourself at intervals 
far apart, have nothing in themselves which could 
place them out of touch with the new generation. 

In this respect they remind me of Aldrich's enduring 
method, and I know that he would have liked your 
poems, as I do. That fine sonneteer most certainly 
would have taken to your sonnets, and very likely he 
knew some of them? I think your awarding them the 
entrance-hall of your pavilion most just; and I like 
the preludes to all the divisions, which are among the 
few exercises in the "memoriam" stanzaic form that 
have taken only their measure from our great Victorian 
elegiac. It is unusual for a poet of your epoch to 
bring out at last as restrained and finished a selection 
125 



of his verses — when so much more must be underlying 
them — and it is a lovable thing to do. Of course, in 
the flood of latter-day fiction, magazine-verse, etc., 
poetry more than ever must be "its own exceeding great 
reward." Mine of the past more than repays me, when 
a tribute like yours, as in Longfellow's song, assures 
me that some arrow of mine has found "the heart of a 
friend." 



126 



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